The Epicurean

Upon an everlasting tide
Into the silent seas we go;
But verdure laughs along the side,
And on the margin roses blow.

Nor life, nor death, nor aught they hold
Rate thou above their natural height:
Yet learn that all our eyes behold
Has value, if we mete it right.

Pluck then the flowers that line the stream,
Instead of fighting with its power:
But pluck as flowers, not gems, nor deem
That they will bloom beyond their hour.

Whate'er betides, from day to day
An even pulse and spirit keep;
And like a child worn out with play,
When wearied with existence, sleep.